Poetry

Morning-time Motorised Ritual Becomes Venue for Criticism

Slithering sycophants,
Cradled by the bosom of benevolent business,
Intelligence never equaling greed.
Toss them pigs some more feed.
Empty days,
Empty years at sea, floating in obscurity.
I thought I would be famous, I was wrong.
Everything I want is gone.

Grey and dismal in spring and in summer,
Graceful and hopeful yeah she was a stunner.
What the hell is joy anyway?
Gone for eternity, here for a day.
Where the hell is your pride anyway?
No self respect without drama and sex,
Fit so fake with your protein shake.
Pout shut out, your open mouth,
Never produced anything of value;

Picture perfect what a bitch you became,
Flicker frenzy I remember your name.
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